


The One with the Jam

by LizardsOnParade



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: All the elves, Baking, Bilbo the Sass Master, Elves, Everyone loves jam, Gratuitous Dwarves, I Don't Even Know, Jam, M/M, Not sorry?, This is all crack guys, Thorin's Emotionally Constipated, Who love jam, but we love him anyway, fíli and kíli are adorable idiots, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-13
Updated: 2014-11-15
Packaged: 2018-02-13 02:25:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2133579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LizardsOnParade/pseuds/LizardsOnParade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They say that all business is good business, but Bilbo only got thirteen Dwarrow for his trouble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Cinnamon Allergy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Luceycantdance](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luceycantdance/gifts).



> It has been a very, very long time since I've last posted fic of any kind where anyone other than my raging insecurities could see. Since the lovely Luceycantdance has been giving me such great encouragement (as she often does), I figured I'd just throw this up and call it a day. 
> 
> Please know that this has not been beta'd. My bad. 
> 
> Enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bilbo saves a Dwarf from asphyxiation, meets two rascals, and runs out of jam.

Bilbo was content with his little booth in Hobbiton’s central market. Made of a sturdy cherry wood, it was stocked with an assortment of homemade (and home-grown) treats. Blueberry jams, apple tarts, raspberry scones, fruits, and vegetables galore. His father had been the one to start the family business, Bag End, and Bilbo took great satisfaction in continuing what his father established. He was even proud to say that the contributions he made to the shop—freshly baked goods and sweet berry jams—made Bag End even more popular than it had been under Bungo’s management.

His mother never really wanted this life for him. Belladonna once entertained grand dreams of sending Bilbo off to study with the Elves or even to the cavernous halls of one of the Dwarven kingdoms. As a child, Bilbo shared in his mother’s visions of his future—he imagined himself exploring deep woods, vast libraries, and gem-encrusted mines. But as he grew older and the Tookish exploration gave way for the Baggins sensibility, Bilbo recognized that that sort of life would only bring trouble. So he set those childish dreams aside and began working in the shop with his father.

Late at night, however, Bilbo sometimes wondered what might have happened had he followed the other, less certain path. 

While Hobbiton may not offer wares as grand or exotic as one might find in the Elven markets or even the city of Dale, their wholesome crop was nothing to shake a fist at. Dwarrow, Elves, and Men alike came from all over to acquire the freshest produce from this side of the Misty Mountains. Well, Men came. Elves and Dwarrow were less common, but plentiful enough in certain seasons. Mostly, the Shire simply sent out shipments of goods to the respective kingdoms, should they have interest.

Bag End jams were revered across Middle Earth and in constant demand. Bilbo could hardly keep up with the orders, but he delighted in knowing that his mother’s recipes were so highly regarded. Hamfast, bless the young lad, took very good care of the expansive bushels, orchards, and vegetable beds nestled behind Bag End (residence, not shop—his father was not the most creative of Hobbits and the differentiation still bungled in Bilbo’s head even after so many years). Of course, much effort went into protecting said crops from those dreadful Sackville-Bagginses, who were determined to get their hands on Bilbo’s award-winning strawberries. What they failed to realize was that the quality of the ingredients only went so far when your recipes were utter garbage. 

Today had been rather slow in terms of business. Lily Cotton stopped by just after opening for a chat and a free sample of Bilbo’s freshly made pumpkin muffins. By mid-morning, the only Hobbits to visit his shop were his little cousin Primula and her mother. After listening to Prim prattle incoherently about his other cousin, Drogo Baggins, for quite a while, her mother dragged her away with a cheerful invitation to elevensies sometime next week. And that was the early afternoon.

 Once all the bustle of family and friends passed (after taking most of the free samples and purchasing very little, Bilbo noted sardonically), the rest of the afternoon was looking quite dull. He contemplated taking inventory and shutting down for the day when the loudest commotion he ever heard erupted at the end of the market.

 “I told you he was  _allergic_ , you blockhead!”

 “Well, how was I supposed to know those had cinnamon in them? It’s an awfully specific allergy if you ask me. Cinnamon’s in practically everything!”

Peeking out into the main road, Bilbo could just make out a small group clustered around a figure crouched in the dirt. From the awful hacking noises he could barely hear over all the cursing and shouting, Bilbo surmised that this was the individual with the unfortunate cinnamon allergy.

It really was in almost everything, Bilbo thought to himself as he grabbed the nearest skin of water. Hobbits were rather fond of the spice, especially during this time of year.

Making his way over as quickly as he could without running, as grown Hobbits simply do not  _run_ , Bilbo took stock of the situation. A poor Bracegirdle lass was nearly in tears, doing her best to help but ultimately getting in the way with her nervous fluttering. On his knees by the side of the road, a slight figure—a Dwarf, from the looks of him—clutched at his throat as he hacked violently into the bushes. The rest of the group, also Dwarrow, stood around shouting at one another, but doing nothing helpful or productive whatsoever. With a huff, Bilbo barged his way through the thick of them and crouched down next to the choking Dwarf, careful not to sully his trousers.

“Here you are,” he said, handing over the waterskin. “It’s best to just flush it all out before you become even more ill. Go on and gargle, will you?”

The young fellow—for he really did look quite young—shot him a grateful look through watery eyes and quickly snatched the water away. After a few large gargles and swallows, the Dwarf managed to stop vomiting and sat in front of the sick-covered mulberry bushes. The others, finally quiet, rushed to pat him on the back and check him over.

“You alright, Ori? Chuck it all up?”

“I’m  _so_ sorry. I didn’t know!”

“Didn’ ask neither, did you, blasted idiot.”

“Hey, leave off! Kíli didn’t mean any harm.”

“Well, he never does, does he? But he manages all the same.”

The Dwarrow resumed their loud bickering, completely blocking out everything else, so Bilbo took the opportunity to slip back to the shop. He could see that the Bracegirdle shopkeep had already done the same, hiding her flaming cheeks behind the till.

Bilbo gave into the urge to close the shop for the afternoon. He was in the midst of taking inventory when a sharp rap echoed from the counter. Two Dwarrow stood in front of his stand, wearing identical grins and peering about the shop with interest.

“Hello!” chirped the one on the right.

The lad sported a face full of scruff and a long tangle of dark hair in need of a good scrub and a thorough combing. His brown eyes danced wickedly and Bilbo suddenly had the urge to tell him that the shop was closed, sorry, come back another time, thank you and good day.

“Yes, may I help you Mister…?”

“Kíli,” the Dwarf supplied with a bob of his head and rested his arms on the counter. “At your service.”

“Mister Kíli,” Bilbo finished dryly, mentally cataloguing which of his wares contained cinnamon or any other known allergens.

“We just wanted to thank you for your help,” the other Dwarf chimed in, picking up a chunk of pumpkin muffin and popping it in his mouth. The clasps at the end of his impressively braided moustache glittered as he chewed.

Where his companion was dark, this one was fair. The Dwarf had a long mane of bright golden hair intricately braided and well-kept. His beard was rather short, but neatly trimmed and Bilbo had to wonder how his friend managed to be so filthy when this fellow looked so sharp.

For a Dwarf, anyway.

His blue eyes twinkled in an eerily similar manner. Bilbo knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that these two spelled trouble. And maybe mayhem for good measure.

“I could hardly leave the poor soul to asphyxiate on the side of the road, now could I?” he asked, whacking at Kíli’s hands as they reached to take the entire basket of free samples. The Dwarf jerked his fingers back with a pout, shaking them to remove the sting. “One sample per customer, if you please.”

“But these are really good,” Kíli whined. “I  _can’t_  just have one!”

“Then you’ll have to buy some,” Bilbo retorted firmly. “I  _am_  running a business here, after all, not a charity for rogue Dwarrow in need of a good wash.”

Kíli scowled but dutifully rummaged through the pockets of his surprisingly clean overcoat. He checked each and every one, inside and out, his face becoming increasingly harried with each empty pocket he encountered. Finally giving up, he turned a bright grin on his companion.

“Fíli,” he crooned, widening his eyes innocently. “I don’t suppose you have any cash to spare for a treat or six?”

Brothers, then, Bilbo decided as he watched the two squabble over money. While he could be forgiven for overlooking the slight resemblance, it really was quite obvious when one simply observed the young Dwarrow.

“Alright,” Fíli grumbled, taking out a rather fat money pouch as his brother’s face lit up. “But just a few. Uncle sent us out for very specific supplies.”

Kíli just nodded eagerly. Bilbo doubted he heard anything that just came out of his brother’s mouth.

They eventually decided on two pumpkin muffins and raspberry scones apiece, along with a small pot of the strawberry jam. Bilbo left them to enjoy their purchases as he counted and stored the money. Just as he closed the till, Fíli made a sound that would have had any proper Hobbit blushing from the tips of his ears down to the curly hair on his feet. The Dwarf stared at the scone in his hand like a man crazed. A spot of strawberry jam smudged his cheek and crumbs littered his moustache and beard.

“I changed my mind,” he said suddenly. His eyes looked rather manic and Bilbo nervously checked about the booth for something to defend himself should the lad decide to viciously murder him.

Fíli slammed his money pouch on the counter, spilling golden coins left and right, and leaned uncomfortably close into Bilbo’s space. “Give us all the jam you’ve got,” he demanded fiercely.

Bilbo wondered if he should alert the authorities.

“But I thought you said—”

“Forget what I said! This is like liquid gold _in my mouth_. Uncle will understand.”

Kíli looked rather unconvinced underneath the smears of jam all over his dirty face.

“I-I’m sorry?” Bilbo finally managed to stammer.

“The jam,” Fíli repeated. “All of it.”

“And the treats!” Kíli added, gripping the counter. “Don’t forget the muffins!”

It seemed as if Kíli wasn’t really concerned with his Uncle’s requests after all. 

“You cannot be serious,” Bilbo cried.

“Don’t question a Dwarf on a mission for good food, Master Hobbit,” Fíli said. “We’re deadly serious.”

“Utterly.”

“So, if you’d please—”

“—box up all the goods—”

“—and accept our payment!”

“We’d greatly appreciate it,” they finished.

Kneading his forehead with his fingertips, Bilbo struggled for composure. These two dunderheads would clean him out of his entire stock, save the fruits and vegetables, for an entire month. While this would make for a good holiday, such a long time away from the stand could hurt his business and give Lobelia just the opening to steal all his customers. It just wasn’t something he was willing to risk.  

Prepared to refuse, Bilbo looked up and was faced with the two most pathetic expressions of naked longing that he caved almost instantly.

 _I’m due for a bit of time off anyway_ , he rationalized.  _And I can always take this opportunity to finish tweaking with Mother’s old raspberry-walnut tart recipe._

“Alright,” Bilbo sighed. “Will you be carrying all this, then? Or do you have a cart?”

“Oh.” Kíli scratched his cheek, looking pensive. “Hadn’t thought of that.”

“ _Shocking_ ,” Bilbo muttered.

He began collecting the jam off the shelves and lining the jars neatly in the crates he kept beneath the counter for large purchases. After ensuring all the fragile containers were safely packed with straw, Bilbo wrapped the perishables in rolls of cloth and tucked them into another crate. Fíli waited patiently before the stand, fiddling with the ties of his money pouch, while his brother presumably went in search of something to lug it all away. Once Bilbo was sure everything was packed away in proper order, he emptied the contents of Fíli’s wallet and assessed how much the lad could reasonably afford.

More than enough, apparently. The pouch contained a heap of golden coins, all embossed with the royal crest of Erebor, and a great deal of silver as well. Ordinarily Hobbits had little use for such wealth. Those that stopped by Bag End usually bartered for goods with services or items of equal value. Bilbo accepted all forms of currency—within reason, of course—but he was just as likely to accept a good side of ham as a handful of coin. So, faced with the sheer quantity of gold in Fíli’s bag, he found he was rather out of his depth. Making an executive decision, Bilbo swept a good majority of Fíli’s gold back into its velvet ( _velvet!_ ) pouch and simply took fifteen gold pieces and ten silver pieces for the lot. He knew he was  _severely_  undervaluing the price of his wares—they were cleaning him out of almost sixty jars of jam and at least three-dozen muffins,  _at least_ —but Bilbo found he could be generous. The two Dwarrow seemed like a good sort, and he noticed the slight strain on Fíli’s face as Bilbo counted out his money.

This way, the boys could have their prizes and still satisfy their uncle with enough gold to spare. And Bilbo got an unexpected holiday. 

 _Everyone wins_ , he thought.

Fíli’s brow furrowed as he watched the Hobbit write out his receipt. “That’s not nearly enough for all of this,” he said.

“Yes, well, it’s not often I receive visitors all the way from Erebor,” Bilbo replied. “Consider it a…special discount.”

“We don’t need charity,” Fíli bit out heatedly. “Or special treatment. Not when we have the means to pay.”

“Now see here.” Bilbo set down his quill and placed his hands on his hips, giving the young Dwarf a level stare. “This is  _my_  business and as such only  _I_  decide who and who will not receive ‘special treatment’. Do you want the jam, or don’t you?”

“Of course we do!” Kíli cried, looking distraught. Behind him was a tiny wheelbarrow Bilbo suspected he nicked from one of his neighbors. “If Fíli says we don’t, ignore him! He’s absolutely barmy sometimes.”

“He’s undercharging us,” his brother told him. “Even though we can well afford it.”

Kíli seemed confused. “And this is a problem because…?”

“Because accepting such a low price would be an insult against the quality of the Hobbit’s wares as well as our ability to pay for it,” Fíli explained sourly and shook his head. “No Dwarf with even a scrap of honor would accept such a deal.”

Kíli fell silent with a contemplative look on his face. Bibo sighed loudly, tapping his foot in frustration.

“Oh confound the stubbornness of such bull-headed Dwarrow! If you will not simply take the discount, consider it then a…favor, of sorts. Repay me as you see fit—or don’t! I care very little, just take the jam and go before I refuse to sell it at all!”

Fíli brightened instantly. “Well, a favor is another thing entirely!” He rubbed his hands together eagerly. “We always return a favor.”

“Of course,” Kíli said with a grin. “Our sincerest thanks, Master Boggins!”

“Wait, how did you— Never mind, never mind! Would you kindly collect your purchases and go?” Bilbo scowled. “And it’s  _Bag_ gins, not  _Bog_ gins. Bilbo  _Baggins_.”

Both simply shrugged and quickly loaded up the wheelbarrow with the many crates of goods. They left as suddenly as they came and Bilbo felt as though he had aged another thirty years. Looking about at his threadbare shelves, he finally felt justified in closing the shop.

After he took inventory. Again. 


	2. The Iron Wheelbarrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bilbo receives a gift, a letter, and uninvited house guests.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy Smuckers, Batman! You guys actually liked this foolishness? :3
> 
> The response has been kinda blowing my mind all day - thanks so much! Now that I'm all jittery and excited, I'm jumping the gun and posting this chapter earlier than anticipated. You can thank Ms. Lucey for her not-so-subtle prodding. (And frankly yourselves because you rock my socks, for serious.)
> 
> Hang on to your hats, ladies and gents, because it's only going to get more foolish from here on out.

Turned out that Kíli  _had_  stolen the wheelbarrow from one of the surrounding Hobbit holes.

Bilbo just never thought to suspect that it had been  _his_.

Hamfast was apoplectic with anxiety when Bilbo returned from the market, worrying his hands together and shifting guiltily on his feet. Some crazed Dwarf hopped the fence and took off in a rush with the wheelbarrow, the gardener explained. All Hamfast could make out was clanking metal and flowing dark hair before the garden gate snapped shut. The trespasser was long gone when he noticed the barrow was missing. It was a good thing Bilbo saw neither hide nor hair of Kíli since he and his brother made off with his entire stock, otherwise he would have hunted the rascal down and given him a good what-for.

In fact, Bilbo didn't see any Dwarrow for a long while afterwards. He figured the group simply passed through Hobbiton on its way to Ered Luin, stopping only to pick up supplies. Either way, Bilbo did not have any more rambunctious Dwarven encounters during his impromptu month-long holiday. And he was perfectly content with his quiet afternoons and quieter Hobbit hole. Bilbo spent time away from the shop productively; he busied himself with new recipes and stored up more jam preserves. Never mind that he could hardly hope to restore his inventory to its former magnificence within a month, but no one could say he did not give it his best effort.

Occasionally Bilbo wandered out of Bag End for a brisk walk or two down to the Old Forest, but mostly he dealt with shop business. The sudden influx of gold meant he could finally begin drawing up plans for bigger larders; although his pantries held a considerable amount already, there was only so much room for his stock in addition to his personal store of groceries. A Hobbit hole with an inadequate space for food reflected poorly on its owner, and Bilbo was loath to give the Sackville-Bagginses ammunition to slander his reputation.

Still, he sometimes reflected briefly on the Dwarf brothers during slow moments, wondering how they were doing, whether they managed to finish off his jam, or if they ever managed to gather their uncle’s supplies. Bilbo even thought after the young Dwarf with the cinnamon allergy.

It was not entirely unexpected, therefore, when the wheelbarrow appeared on his doorstep. Bilbo opened his door one morning with the intention of enjoying a morning pipe, only to find his path blocked by the largest iron wheelbarrow he had ever seen. It was crammed right between the two flower patches on either side of his green door and Bilbo noticed with some distress the large footprints among the crushed and wilted mayflowers. Although the barrow was a massive, hulking thing (and Yavanna only knew how a small Hobbit would even manage to  _push_ it, much less use it), Bilbo had to admit the craftsmanship was superb. From the spindly, delicate vines wrapping around the entire body to the sturdy iron spokes, it was obviously made by someone of great skill. Bilbo ran a finger over the Dwarvish runes engraved among the vines and tiny flowers, wondering what they said.

An envelope made of good ( _expensive_ ) parchment was tied to the handle with a bit of twine. Bilbo took only a moment to study the seal before he tucked the letter in his pocket; it could wait until the wheelbarrow was stored away from watchful Hobbit eyes. If they ever managed to move it from his doorstep, that is.

Later, after Hamfast crammed the barrow into the tiny gardening shed behind Bag End (“I’m tellin’ you, Mister Baggins, sir, it just won’t  _fit_.”), Bilbo sat at his desk in the study with the letter cradled between his hands. He had no delusions as to its sender, but Bilbo found himself speculating over what sort of Dwarrow the boys were, to be able to afford such quality. While he thought to question it as they ransacked his jam supplies, somehow the feel of the thick parchment under his fingers demanded attention in a way the gold had not. Bilbo’s eyes flickered over the royal blue seal, tracing over the crest of Erebor, and suddenly felt a deep, queasy certainty in the pit of his stomach.

He hopped up out of his seat, tossing the letter into the top drawer of his desk. “I can look at it later,” he muttered to himself. “No sense in working myself up over who—or rather  _what_ —”

_No, no. Stop thinking about it!_

“I will not allow those two ruffians to work me into a tizzy,” Bilbo announced decisively to his empty study, shutting the drawer with a sharp click. “It’s enough to give one indigestion and that just won’t do. Not at all.”

Resolving to put the matter aside for the moment, the Hobbit pattered into the kitchen and went about preparing his afternoon tea. 

 

* * *

 

Bilbo didn’t think to read the letter until three days later, after a large burly Dwarf nearly broke down his door. He had been in the middle of preparing his second breakfast when the pounding began, startling him so badly he almost sliced his thumb right through with a knife. Bilbo hurried to open it, ready to give his visitor a pointed word or two about the etiquette when calling on neighbors, only to freeze in his tracks once he saw the figure on the other side of the door.

The Dwarf was certifiably the scariest being Bilbo ever had the misfortune to meet—and he was related to Lobelia Sackville-Baggins. Positively littered with tattoos and glaring out at him from behind a bristly beard, the visitor was unlike any of Bag End’s usual callers. Admittedly Bilbo’s gaping may have come off as a little impolite, but any respectable Hobbit would forgive him for the slight once they saw the giant pair of  _axes_  strapped to the fellow’s back. His fingers quivered on the doorknob—would it be too late to close the door and pretend as if no one were at home?

“You Baggins?” the Dwarf fairly barked at him. His voice reverberated down the hall, probably shattering all the glass and porcelain as it went.

“I-I beg your pardon?” Bilbo stammered.

“Baggins,” the visitor repeated even more fiercely. “He live here?”

 _He’s come to murder me and grind my bones into paste._ “Yes, he does. I am Bilbo Baggins; may I help you…”

Bilbo trailed off uncertainly as the Dwarf continued to glare at him viciously— _no, murderously_ , his mind whispered.

“You weren’t at the shop,” grumbled the Dwarf. Bilbo swore his beard bristled even more in agitation.

“I can hardly run a business with nothing to sell, now can I?” Bilbo asked indignantly. “The last Dwarrow to visit my shop ensured that I’d have very little to offer anyone! Now, if I may be so bold as to ask, who are you and what do you want?”

“You didn’ read the letter, did you?”

“What lett—” Bilbo paused. “How do you know about the letter? And  _who are you_?”

The Dwarf blatantly ignored him and sighed loudly in aggravation. He crossed his burly arms over his burly chest and my but didn’t he look terrifying?

“You’d best get to reading it, Master Baggins,” he said. “We’re late enough as it is.”

“Late?” Bilbo spluttered. “Whatever for? Now don’t think I haven’t noticed that you’ve deliberately ignored all my questions, indeed I have, and quite frankly it’s really rather rude—”

“The letter, Master Baggins,” his visitor interrupted again.

Bilbo puffed up angrily, opening his mouth to protest again but deciding against it. He grit his teeth, swallowing many unpleasant thoughts, and shut the door in the Dwarf’s face. Rudeness begets rudeness, after all, and Bilbo would not have this unsavory character sitting amongst his home’s valuables. He had to watch after his silverware enough in the company of friends as it was.

Stomping into the study, Bilbo wrenched open the desk drawer and pulled out the blasted letter. Adjusting his dressing gown about him with harsh yanks, he sat down heavily in his chair, carelessly ripping open the wax seal and pulling out the message. Confound Dwarrow and their incivility! Interrupting second breakfast without so much as a by-your-leave—not even letting a Hobbit dress himself properly first! More trouble than they’re worth, the lot of them, and just see if he won’t have something to say about that. Oh, he will have words.

It took Bilbo a long moment to realize that his silent diatribe against the existence of all Dwarrow in Middle Earth was, in fact, not so silent. Despite being quite alone in his study, he could still feel his cheeks heat with embarrassment. Bilbo cleared his throat and smoothed the letter down on the desktop with as much dignity as he could muster.

Which was quite a lot, thank you.

“ ** _Dear Master Boggins_** _ **,** ” _the letter cheekily began in a scrawl so sloppy Bilbo could barely make heads or tails of it. “ ** _We hope you enjoy the new wheelbarrow. The last came to an unfortunate end on the road._** _ ~~Kíli used it for firewood.~~_ _S **o we made you a new one! It’ll last you twice as long as the old barrow—and it’s twice as nice!** ”_

Bilbo snorted rather unhobbitly at this.

“ _What my brother is trying to say is that he is sorry for stealing and subsequently destroying your wheelbarrow_ _—_ ** _ ~~Did not! Just borrowed it…without asking~~_** _—_ _and we thank you for its use. Please accept this as a replacement with our sincerest apologies_.

“ ** _Everyone loved the jam! A little too much since we had to fight everyone off to protect it—Fíli almost bit Uncle when he took a jar, I know he did no matter how much he denies it. The intent was there, Master Boggins, you must believe me._**

“ _As the purpose of this letter is not to slander my name, I will come straight to the point. Since Uncle and our Company were all mightily impressed with your culinary talents, we would like to request an additional ten cases for our return trip. Our first installment sadly did not last against the brunt of Dwarven appetites and the thought of traveling back to Erebor with no jam to sustain us cuts me to the quick. We have not forgotten the kindness you’ve shown us, Master Baggins, and plan to fully repay the favor when we see you next_ ** _ ~~with the jam! And scones please please PLEASE~~_ _._**

“ ** _We’re due back in the Shire in a fortnight. If you could ensure those cases are ready_** _—_ _ ~~with extra of the blackberry jam if you please~~_ _—_ ** _our Company would greatly appreciate it. We look forward to seeing you again!_**

**_Kíli_ **

_Fíli_

_Princes Under the Mountain_.”

Princes? Those two ridiculous boys were  _princes_  of  _Erebor_? Bilbo spared half a thought for the future of the kingdom, more focused on the demand for ten more crates of jam and how he could not possibly meet it. Did they not understand the need for inventory? Bag End (shop, not residence) did not exist simply to cater to the whims of two dunderheaded Dwarrow—regardless of their royal status.

 _Princes_? They were  _royalty_? Bilbo could not understand—it was completely incomprehensible! While Fíli surely looked the part, Kíli must roll about in the dirt daily, if not hourly! And although Fíli tried to hide it under a roguish swagger, he was just as silly as his brother.

Well, Bilbo considered, maybe not as silly. No one could reach the heights of absurdity that Kíli seemed to have in spades.

Princes? Ten cases of jam?

Nope. 

 

* * *

 

“He’s waking up!”

“ _Shh_ , don’t prod him, idiot.”

“Then stop crowding him, git.”

Bilbo groaned, slapping a hand over his eyes. If he didn’t look, then this could all be a dream. A horrible dream. Because if he looked, Bilbo suspected he would find two silly princes in his home. Uninvited.

“Alright, lad, let’s look you over,” an exceedingly loud voice said in his ear.

Hands on his shoulders helped him reluctantly sit up from his reclining position. Bilbo stubbornly kept his eyes closed until he was certain he could handle seeing the disarray his uninvited guests surely made of his home.

“Hey.” A harsh finger bopped him on the nose. “What’s wrong with your eyes? You didn’t hurt them in your swooning fit, did you?”

“I did not  _swoon_ ,” Bilbo snapped, his eyes popping open to glare at a grinning Kíli. “I was simply overcome for a moment.”

 _Swooned_ , Fíli mouthed at him behind his brother. Bilbo steadfastly ignored him.

There were far too many Dwarrow crowding his small sitting room and he could hear even more loud voices in the kitchen. Not only were they invading his home unwelcome, he thought angrily, but they were looting his foodstuffs while they were at it!  _This simply won’t do—I cannot have these people in my home! Just think of what the neighbors will say!_

“You gave us quite a scare, Master Baggins,” Fíli said. “When you weren’t at the shop and wouldn’t open the door for Dwalin, we feared you’d up and ran off.”

“Mighty rude he was, slamming the door in my face,” the burly Dwarf—Dwalin, Bilbo now knew—grumbled.

Serves him right, the terrifying cad.

“All our fears were for naught, though,” Kíli said from the hallway as he scraped his muddy boots on the chest against the wall. “Broke down the door and found you in a heap on the floor. At first I thought you’d just fallen down dead, but Óin said you’d only fainted. Like a  _lady_.”

“I’d not let your mother hear you make comments like that, my boy,” said a Dwarf with a spectacularly long white beard.

Kíli immediately flinched, but kept on cleaning his filthy boots.

“ _Excuse_  me,” Bilbo said heatedly. “But could you please stop wiping your dirty feet on my mother’s glory box? How rude! And  _you_!” He pointed at a Dwarf—wearing the silliest hat ever made—in the process of using one of his mother’s doilies as a handkerchief. “Put that down this instant! If you need something to blow your nose, kindly ask me before you go around using my possessions improperly!”

Suitably chastened, the Dwarf put the doily down and stuck his hands in his pockets. Kíli, however, just shrugged and didn’t even have the grace to appear remotely sorry. The little barbarian.

Looking wildly about the room, Bilbo took in the sheer amount of bodies occupying his space. “Who  _are_ all of you?” he demanded, a touch panicked.

Fíli and Kíli looked offended.

“No, not  _you_. I know  _you_ —though I am starting to wish I didn’t—”

At that, the boys just looked wounded.

“—but the rest of you! Who are you, what do you want, and why are you  _in my house?_ _Uninvited_?”

Later, Bilbo might admit that he’d been shrieking, but only under the influence of drink and with heavy prompting.

The Dwarf with the white beard stepped forward, his hands held out placatingly. “My name is Balin, son of Fundin,” he said in a calm voice. “We are the Company of Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain, and we have come to invite you to Erebor.” He paused. “Did the boys not explain this in their letter?”

A glance at Fíli and Kíli’s faces revealed that not only had they  _not_  mentioned this detail in their letter, but that they had completely forgotten to mention it at all, too preoccupied with the thought of Bilbo’s blackberry jam.

 _Erebor…?_ Bilbo thought weakly.

Nope. 


	3. The Hobbit Method of Concealment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Thorin gets lost, destroys Bilbo's property, and fails to get his way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hullo again~! I enjoyed reading the comments for the last chapter; they made me smile. :) Since your author is a sad, awkward individual, she stopped replying when she noticed that other people could read them. I dunno gaiz, I spend too much time with fictional characters than actual humans to function like a normal person. But don't worry, I plan to respond to every single one. Eventually. 
> 
> This chapter is the last of the pre-written chapters, so the time between updates will get a little longer now.
> 
> We get Thorin POV in this one, which I must say was a joy to write. Such a precious baby.

Thorin was mightily unimpressed with the small Hobbit village. Quaint though it may be, the winding roads and overabundance of foliage made it nearly impossible to navigate. And Mahal forbid they even  _think_  to put up signs for travelers. Thorin would ordinarily appreciate such suspicious wariness of strangers if it hadn’t been the source of his mounting frustration.

He conveniently ignored the fact that many foreign dignitaries frequently made similar complaints within his own kingdom.

His nephew explained that the grocer’s home would be directly up the road from the market. What Kíli forgot to tell him was that the road forked almost immediately after one left the square. Thorin stood at the base of the hill for quite a while, internally debating whether to go left and upwards or right and downwards. After long moments of consideration, he decided to go right.

And ended up horribly lost within minutes.

Thorin stared viciously at the mass of trees all around him, mentally ranking the Shire as his second least favorite realm in Middle Earth. Behind Greenwood, of course, as no one could top  _that_ kingdom in infuriating inconvenience (among its many, many other failings). He had only taken a few minutes to speak with the wayman about the condition of the roads out of the Shire—there was a terrible rainstorm two days previous and Thorin worried it would interfere with the travel schedule Balin prepared. He stopped for only a few moments, just a few, but apparently it was enough time for his entire Company to charge off and leave him behind.

The problem with having mostly miners and tinkers in his closest circle, Thorin ruminated, is that they have no respect for kingly authority.

He was surprised, though, that the Fundin brothers had been quick to abandon him as well. Thorin should just banish the lot of them and be done with it. He was about to march forward through the thicket when a small figure bustled around a bend previously invisible to Thorin’s eyes. The Hobbit cheerfully gnawed on an apple, completely free of any navigational issues and thereby worsening the Dwarf king’s mood with his careless joie-du-vivre.

“You there,” Thorin called.

Apparently his voice did nothing to conceal his fury, as the Hobbit took one look at him, squeaked, and dropped his apple in the dirt.

“C-Can I help-p you, s-sir-r?” the foolish creature asked, quivering all over rather pathetically.

Thorin did his best not to glower. “I am looking for a residence called Bag End,” he said. “Do you know where I can find it?”

The Hobbit seemed puzzled, staring at him as if he were rather simple. The idiot was still quivering, Thorin noticed acerbically.

“I-It’s just to the left of the f-fork, sir,” the Hobbit replied. “D-Did you, uh, not see the sign?”

 _No, I bloody well did not_ , Thorin wanted to snarl.  _As I am over two feet tall_.

Instead, he calmly thanked the stranger for the directions and turned back the way he came, muttering curses under his breath as he went. Dís would be proud of his diplomacy, after she finished laughing herself silly. 

A quick glance at the fork revealed a tiny sign nestled among the tall grass. One would have to be looking for it to notice and Thorin wondered darkly how anyone ever managed to find their way at all. He should have known when Kíli gave him instructions to the house ‘ _just in case_ ’ that this would happen. Whenever one says that damnable phrase, the worst-case scenario is always sure to follow.

As it was, Thorin was obliged to ask for directions once more while following the path. The Hobbit method of concealment was really quite impressive, Thorin grudgingly admitted, as it took another turnabout before he noticed that a side path curved off the main road. When every blade of grass or clump of trees looked identical, intruders would have a hard time finding homes to pillage. Thorin stomped up the hill, past another small sign merrily proclaiming ‘ _Bagshot Row_ ’ in tiny curling script. The day he came back to this blasted place would be a sorry day indeed.

 _Finally_  a den with a bright round green door appeared up ahead. It seemed to be hanging off its hinges and had long scrapes marring the paint on its left side. He could hear a loud commotion going on inside—loud voices and all manners of banging and smashing. Everyone was here, then. Thorin allowed himself to scowl to his fullest displeasure before taking a deep breath and releasing it slowly through his mouth. He reached out and gave the broken door a loud harsh rap, silencing the noise inside and simultaneously sending it crashing from its hinges onto the polished wooden floor of the inside hallway. 

 

* * *

 

In the fragile stillness before the onslaught, Thorin recognized two things: 

One, that their itinerary would most certainly need to be updated to factor in the time it would take to repair the damned door he unexpectedly obliterated.

Two, that their grocer was one of the most aesthetically pleasing creatures in the entirety of Middle Earth.

Based on the sly grins his nephews were shooting him, he knew that they knew he noticed. Botheration.

Still, as the Hobbit’s wide eyes stared into his own, Thorin knew he would do everything in his power to ensure that the small grocer was bundled away with the rest of them on their return to Erebor. Before he could do something stupid, like vocally compare the Hobbit’s eyes to the finest and clearest emeralds found in the dark mines of Erebor, the grocer opened his mouth and began the longest tirade directed at him since the age of fifty-five.

“What have you done to my  _door_!?” the Hobbit screeched (and even as Thorin mentally winced it was still a rather lovely voice). “I just had it repainted last week! A-And the hinges—how could you—why would you---” Here he broke off into some sort of nonverbal conniption. “Now, now see here! I don’t know who you are and frankly I don’t care to learn, but you cannot just barge your way into someone’s home without their consent! I have had to deal with too much Dwarven presumptuousness this morning to idly stand by while you and your companions terrorize my pantry. And I don’t care if you’re interested in my jam, really it’s just not worth the fuss, you’ve ruined my second breakfast, and my door, and my mother’s glory box, and my best dishes, and—and I would very much appreciate it if you would all just  _get out of my house_!”

Thorin stood in the doorway, not a little gob smacked, as the tiny Hobbit huffed and puffed in an attempt to steady his breathing. Did he say aesthetically pleasing? What Thorin really meant was absolutely obnoxious. He honestly only listened to a fraction of that rambling spew of complaints and didn’t think the Hobbit quite knew what he said himself either.

Mahal help him if he came all this way to be berated by an imp from his worst nightmares. This little harridan would find no place among his Company—jam or no jam. It wasn’t even that good to begin with. Only passable at best.

 _At best_.

His nephews were beside themselves with laughter just behind the Hobbit, their faces red with the effort to keep quiet. Kíli looked about ready to pass out from the effort, which would serve him right for his lack of familial support and fealty. If Thorin was lucky (and he often was not) his nephew would smack his head particularly hard on the wooden floor, die, and thereby make his uncle’s life just that much easier.

Thorin really needed new relatives.

“Bilbo,” Fíli managed to choke out. “May I present our uncle, Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain. Uncle, this is Bilbo Baggins, our soon-to-be royal pastry chef and my new favorite person.”

“ _Our_ new favorite person. Oh, Uncle, can we keep him? Please?”

Thorin was gratified to see Bilbo’s face redden in mortification, even as he opened his mouth to sputter rebukes at his nephews. Despite the flush that went straight to his delicately pointed ears, the Hobbit still held his ground and glared at all the Dwarrow he could lay eyes on, full of indignant anger. No, they would certainly not keep him. Thorin wanted no part of it whatsoever.

He would do everything in his power to ensure that Bilbo Baggins remained in the Shire where he belonged.

 

* * *

 

Thorin had to wonder when being king meant that one had no power whatsoever. Despite his many refusals to take the Hobbit into the Company (quietly, so as not to offend their host—quietly enough anyway), somehow the blasted grocer managed to worm his way onto the back of their extra pony. It comforted him to see that Bilbo was also confused as to how he ended up in this position, for he was not as quiet in his (offensive) protestations.

Someday Thorin would discover just how his nephews managed to get their way each and every time. At the moment the rain was pouring down on them, soaking everyone to the bone and making for a miserable beginning to their journey. Balin silently delegated the Hobbit as navigator to show them out of the nestle of tiny dwellings to the ferry, as they all knew leaving Thorin to lead would bring about slow starvation and eventually death.

Or at least several hours of frustration.

Fighting the urge to hunch his shoulders against the rain dripping down into the back of his collar, Thorin sullenly reflected on the circumstances that resulted in Bilbo pouting rather extraordinarily on the pony before him. He couldn't quite pin down where things started to go wrong...

To say that Thorin and Bilbo Baggins got on like a house on fire wasn’t entirely inaccurate. If one pictured the abject horror of seeing a neighbor’s home burn to the ground with the inhabitants trapped inside, it would aptly portray the catastrophe of their first meeting. Everyone around them could almost _feel_  contempt and annoyance they felt for one another.

And if Fíli pointed out that fire could describe another passionate, more positive emotion, well, his nephew was an idiot.

After disrespectfully demanding the Dwarrow fix his door and remove themselves from the premises, Bilbo puttered about setting his home to rights. Even as he berated his house guests for their discourtesy, the Hobbit made sure to set an assortment of food within easy reach on the kitchen table. He went so far as to hand Dori a teacup and a plate of biscuits as the Dwarf brewed tea on the cast-iron stove, and Glóin a napkin when he slobbered bits of clotted cream over his tunic.

Thorin couldn’t decide whether Bilbo was being intentionally contradictory or if he was just subconsciously inclined to play host. His Company seemed to enjoy the attention at any rate, if the smothered grins were anything to go by. Personally, Thorin thought it showed a distinctive lack of backbone if the Hobbit was more inclined serve unwanted guests rather than force them out.  

He snorted and turned away to look at the repairs needed, surreptitiously snatching an iced biscuit from the plate Dori set on the table. Thorin had work to do.

Behind him, he could hear the boys move in on Bilbo, wheedling him about the open invitation. Not that the Hobbit would be coming, if Thorin had his way.

Which, as king and leader of the Company, he would.

“While I appreciate your dedication to repaying a debt,” Bilbo said crossly. “I must refuse. I cannot possibly go gallivanting off into the wilderness!”

“And why not?” Kíli asked stubbornly, the beginnings of a spectacular pout on his lips. “It’s not because I stole your crummy old wheelbarrow, is it? Because we replaced that.”

“And made it better,” Fíli supplied.

The Hobbit looked well and truly exasperated. “I believe your definition of the word ‘better’ needs some adjustment. And forget about the wheelbarrow! I have a business to run, boys, and a home to keep. Who will mind the shop should I choose to go? And far be it for me to allow those Sackville-Bagginses to loot through my things after I leave—especially now that my door is currently lying in my hallway!”

“Uncle promised to fix that,” Fíli assured desperately. “New locks and everything.”

“And _no one_ can break a lock a Dwarf doesn’t want broken,” Kíli proudly added. “Those…whoever they are won’t be able to lay a finger on your silver spoons.”

“Who would want a lock for the sole purpose of breaking it?” Bilbo asked confusedly. “That makes absolutely little sense.”

“The point is,” Fíli hurried to say, cutting his brother off before he could respond. “Your home will be well protected. And we’re not asking you to give up your business, Master Baggins, only relocate. Surely you could sell your wares from Erebor? You wouldn’t want for eager customers.”

“No doubt about that!” called Bofur cheerfully from the kitchen. “Bombur nearly chewed my arm off for the last slab of that blueberry crumb cake!”

Bombur, with his mouth full of said cake and his beard speckled with crumbs, had the decency to look sheepish around his bulging cheeks. The remnants of Bilbo’s pantry littered the kitchen table; most of the Dwarrow were seated around it, or as many as could fit, watching the argument while they ate. Nori seemed to be taking bets on who would win.

“I’m sorry, this all really very flattering, but—”

Thorin snorted from where he was crouched over the broken door. “Let the grocer make his excuses,” he said as he inspected the hinges. It was a wonder they managed to hold anything for as long as they had for such shoddy work. “The journey back would be too much for someone of his sort, and we’re behind schedule as it is.” 

Dwalin coughed into his fist at the sight of Bilbo’s offended face, while Balin just smiled indulgently behind his beard. The others gave each other knowing looks and settled in their respective spots to listen to the fallout.

“I suppose you’re right,” Kíli agreed, throwing his brother a discreet wink. “He’d only slow us down in the end. We did promise Mother to be home within the next two months.”

Fíli gave a languid shrug of his shoulders and affected a carless expression. “We’ll just have to find another way to thank Master Baggins. It wouldn’t be fair to expose his delicate sensibilities to the harsh conditions of the road.”

“Exactly,” Thorin said absently and snapped a mangled hinge clean off the doorjamb.

Bilbo’s glare could sear flesh off bones and his tiny fists shook with the effort to stay by his sides. “I am not some fragile dandy that can’t handle a little discomfort!” he bit out. “My mother was a Took, you know, and went on all sorts of adventures in her day. And I myself have been on quite a few for business and my own enjoyment! This would hardly be the first time I’ve been far from home, or even in less than agreeable conditions.”

“Bree hardly counts as an adventure, Master Baggins,” Thorin remarked scathingly. “No, you’d best stay here with your doilies and your handkerchiefs.”

“I’m coming,” Bilbo snapped over the boys’ cheering. “ _After_ you’ve fixed my door.”

That had been the end of that, and now Thorin found himself stuck in close quarters with the small grocer and his fussy demands and complaints.

And his rather fetching bottom.

Botheration.


	4. The Parasites

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bilbo is captured by trolls, reunites with an old friend, and loses his crumpets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, the troll scene. Sorry to rehash it all over again for like the bajilliontieth time, but I'm rather fond of it. Hopefully it's not as mundane and overwritten as one might expect? 
> 
> This admittedly took longer to write than I expected, but my job actually required me to do some actual work for the first time in forever. But I'm also replying to all the comments I've neglected since the beginning, so yay! 
> 
> Please let me know if you encounter any spelling/grammar mistakes; I've gone over it far too many times to actually notice when I'm not doing English correctly. Ah, well.

Hanging from the meaty fists of two trolls, Bilbo vowed to kill Fíli dead. Well, perhaps not  _dead_ , but the Dwarf wouldn’t be sitting pretty once all was said and done. Oh, the things Bilbo would do to that boy if he escaped with his arms intact. He could forgive Kíli since he had jumped to intervene as soon as the troll used Bilbo as his own personal handkerchief, but Fíli was a dead man.

 _Hoot twice like a Barn Owl and once like a Screech Owl, indeed_. Bilbo would be damned if Fíli could follow his own instructions without sounding like a dying crow. As if a Dwarf, holed up in rock and stone, even knew what an owl looked like! Silly, irresponsible, reckless…

To add insult to injury, his back was sticky and disgusting, and there was no possible way troll snot would ever wash out. This was his second-best waistcoat, too.

Thorin, down below, looked murderously angry—most likely due to Bilbo’s sheer incompetence. It wouldn’t be the first time the Dwarf king made some sort of cutting remark about his decidedly lacking survival skills. Alright, so Bilbo may have stretched the truth a tad in his sitting room those many nights ago, but he wasn’t entirely useless! Bombur appreciated his input for their daily meals and Ori always welcomed his help when gathering firewood. Until today, Bilbo never ran into any issues when caring for the horses with the boys—and he wasn’t even the one responsible for watching them! He may not possess Dwalin’s ferocious axes or Dori’s strength, but he was quiet and quite sneaky when necessary. The trolls would never have known Bilbo was there if it hadn’t have been for that stroke of bad luck.

He was good for something, confound it all, and if Thorin could see anything beyond his great big nose he’d know that.

But as it was Bilbo hanging perilously above the bubbling cauldron, the only thing Thorin Oakenshield was likely to see were his shortcomings. Of which, apparently, there were many.

“Drop your arms!” one of the trolls yelled.  

“Or we’ll wip his off!” said the other.

The third troll just nodded along stupidly.

Of all the creatures to bring about his short, painful death, Bilbo thought, couldn’t they have been something mildly  _intelligent_? His nose wrinkled as he caught a full whiff of the trolls’ stench. Okay, maybe something cleaner. Definitely cleaner. 

Bilbo could just imagine the epithet on his tombstone now:  _“Here lies Bilbo Baggins, the armless Hobbit. Dismembered by idiot trolls.”_

At least his would be the most exciting death in the Shire since that one fellow was attacked by rabid squirrels. 

_Well, this is all rather morbid._

Bilbo knew he should say something, anything to distract the trolls or even encourage the Dwarrow to leave—the simpletons, honestly—but fear choked his voice and he hardly knew what to say anyway. As stubborn and ridiculous as the Company could be, no one would leave a member behind without a fight, regardless of what they thought of him.

Thorin proved him right when he grudgingly tossed his sword to the ground, the others following suit. Bilbo had little time to react before the group was bundled into stinky burlap sacks and tossed unceremoniously into a heap to the side of the camp. Those that managed to avoid being trussed up like potatoes were tied to a spit over the trolls’ blazing fire. Bofur, Nori, and the rest were groaning pathetically from the heat, and although no one was looking at him Bilbo felt the guilt keenly. Desperate to stop his companions’ slow roasting, he wiggled onto his feet, rolling over quite a few Dwarrow as he did so. Someone let out a whoosh of breath as one Hobbit foot caught him in the stomach, but there was little point in apologizing now.

Perhaps later, if they all lived and he didn’t forget.

“No, no,  _no_ ,” Bilbo called, doing his best to stomp his foot through his burlap sack. “You’re doing it all  _wrong_.”

Their captors paused in their discussion on how to best cook Dwarf meat and stared at him quizzically. One of them snuck a lick of the roasting Dwarrow while the other two weren't looking, and Bilbo couldn't help but feel perversely glad that someone else was covered in troll filth. 

“What’re you on about?” one of the trolls asked. “Can’t you see I’m cookin’ 'ere?”

“Oh, alright. I was just trying to keep you from ruining a perfectly good meal, but do as you like. It makes no difference to me.”

“Huh?” another one huffed stupidly. “This is the way we always cook ‘em. We ain’t ruinin’ nothin’.”

“Only a complete twit roasts Dwarf meat above the fire without proper seasoning,” Bilbo said in a pompous tone. “Now they’ll be all tough and gamey and not very good at all.”

“An’ what do  _you_  know about cookin’ Dwarfeses?” the first troll demanded. He waved his spoon at the Hobbit threateningly.

Bilbo tried not to flinch as droplets of their foul soup splattered across his face. “Plenty,” he replied. “We have Dwarf at every meal where I’m from, you know. No one cooks them like a…a burrlahobbit can.”

“He’s lyin’,” the troll declared dismissively.

“Youse jus’ bein’ prideful,” the third troll piped in. “An’ I’m sick of your cookin’. If the Burrlahobbit knows a better way, then I wants to know.”

“If yer so much better, why ain’t _you_ th’ one cookin’, eh? _Eh_? Slave away all nigh’ an’ _this_  is th’ thanks I get? Ungrateful lout!”

There was a bit of tussling at that, and Bilbo feared they would topple over into the fire and squish everyone before he even had the chance to save them, but it soon petered out and each troll turned to Bilbo expectantly. The Dwarrow were making quite a fuss behind him, yelling things like “traitor!” and “you barefaced bastard!” at the top of their lungs. 

Bilbo surprisingly found himself commiserating with the cook: you slave away trying to keep your friends from being eaten, only for them to repay you with jeers and insults? The nerve!

“Errr, well, for one thing,” Bilbo began, casting about for excuses. “Anyone knows that Dwarf meat is sweetest when they have been fed copious amounts of…jam.”

“Jam?” the trolls chorused in confusion.

“Yes,” the Hobbit continued. “It is the only way to rid them of the, uh, parasites in their…their…tubes.”

“ _What!? I don’t have parasites!_ ”

“ _Liar!_ ”

“ _Not the_ jam _, Bilbo, don’t give them the_ jam _!_ ”

Bilbo heard a dull thud and one of the boys give a sharp yelp, then suddenly Kíli began shouting: “I mean  _yes_ , of  _course_. I have the  _biggest_  parasites!”

“Full of ‘em!”

“Even my  _parasites_  have parasites!”

Their captors only became increasingly annoyed and disgruntled the more the Dwarrow tried to convince them of how disgustingly infected they were. When one of the trolls began to fidget dangerously with the club at his side, Bilbo convinced himself that it would just smash all the parasites out of them instead and be done with it. If he attempted to signal them to be quiet, the trolls could catch on to his ruse, even if they only had three brain cells to rub together collectively.

“You shut yer gobs before I shut ‘em for yeh!” one of the trolls finally yelled, hefting his club threateningly. “I swears I will!”

As one, the Dwarrow did as they were told, though not without some grumbling. Satisfied, the troll plunked back down into his seat and picked up his tankard of swill. He knocked it back while the other two once again turned to the only Hobbit within the crowd.

“An’ jus’ where do we get this jam?” the leader asked, looming ominously into Bilbo’s space. “‘ow do we know you ain’t lyin’ to us?”

Feeling his face break out into a nervous sweat, Bilbo struggled to answer. “Well, if you would be so kind as to set me loose, I could lead you to the supply I always keep with me—just in case.”

No one said anything for a moment and the tension was so thick Bilbo imagined it would suffocate him. The longer the leader debated on whether to trust him and take his advice or to continue on with his cooking, the longer the Dwarrow on the spit hovered over the fire. Bilbo could feel the heat of the flames from where he stood ten feet away; for his companions, it must be unimaginably hot. The troll hemmed and hawed, arguing with the others over the time and how they could spare very little before the sun came up. Bilbo shot an anxious look toward the fire, where he could hear the Dwarrow just start to really protest against the heat. He knew their people could withstand ridiculously high temperatures—that came with the territory of being some of the best smiths in Middle Earth, Bilbo supposed—but not even they would be able to hold out against being slowly roasted alive for long.

The cold sweat that covered Bilbo’s forehead gradually made its way down his back, until he felt as though his anxiety would literally drown him (if the tension didn’t do him in first). The trolls _must_ take the bait—if not, every single one of them would die gruesomely to feed these monsters’ appetites.

And it would be all his fault.

Why, oh why had Bilbo let his temper get the best of him? Hobbits were truly not made for these sorts of situations, oh why had he thought he could make it, that he was strong or quick or clever enough—

“Alrigh’ then,” the troll finally said, making Bilbo almost faint with sheer relief. “We’ll use yer jam, but be quick about it. Ain’t got much time, see?”

With a grunt, he took the spit off the fire—to the Dwarrow’s collective relief—and tossed it down on top of the others. Bilbo winced at the collective moan of pain.

“M’ noss,” Bofur complained in a muffled whine.

As the troll reached out to grab him, Bilbo thought he really just might faint after all.

Immediately the Dwarrow started protesting, but Bilbo couldn’t quite make out if their objections were for the jam or his own wellbeing over the pounding of his heart. After all, the Company managed to keep their dozens of crates of jam intact this far; Mahal damn them if they would allow three stinky trolls to get their meaty paws all over them.

Said meaty paw was mere inches from Bilbo when a great cry of “Dawn take you all, and be stone to you!” resounded from a copse of trees to the left. A flash of bright light flooded the clearing as a large pile of boulders split right down the middle, revealing the early morning sun. Bilbo hardly dared to move as the troll in front of him opened his mouth to scream, stone encompassing his feet, then his legs, until no flesh remained. With a shudder, he shuffled out of the statue’s outstretched fingers, taking care not to look into its face.

The Company squirmed around in piles in the dirt, grumbling and cursing as the Dwarrow attempted to free themselves. With some effort, Bilbo wiggled out of his sack and hastened to help untie the bunch strapped onto the spit, rolling the log away to let them breathe. He would have moved to assist the others still struggling to free themselves as well, if not for the figure in grey standing on the edge of the clearing.

“Gandalf?” he asked in surprise.

The old wizard only smiled in reply, content to watch the ruckus unfold. Eventually everyone wrested themselves out of their sacks and began to gather up their scattered weapons. The Dwarrow eyed the newcomer suspiciously, giving him a wide berth, but Gandalf hardly seemed to notice. Fíli and Kíli stumbled over, apologizing profusely for sending him out so grossly unprepared.  

“I was just behind you, Bilbo, really!” Kíli swore, his eyes wide and earnest. “You’re so small, we didn’t think you’d run into any trouble!”

Bilbo hardly wanted to forgive them, what with him almost getting eaten and all, but the boys looked so genuinely remorseful for their part in the entire blunder. Fili’s face was still as white as a sheet and his brother’s was no better—Bilbo had to remember that despite the years they had on him, both were still just children in so many ways. Loud, bearded, sword-wielding children.

“And just what were you thinking, charging into a den of trolls, with nary a weapon to protect yourself, nor the skills to wield one?” Thorin demanded fiercely, appearing from seemingly nowhere. He brushed his nephews aside to plant himself firmly in front of their grocer. “You could have gotten yourself killed and the rest of us along with you.”

Bilbo felt too tired to deal with overbearing kings, not now that the danger was finally over. “And what would you have had me do?” he demanded wearily. “Send Kíli in only to watch them tear him apart within seconds?”

“Hey!” Kíli objected indignantly. “That’s not what would have happened at all!”

“He would have lasted half a second,” Dwalin said casually as he sidled up to the group.

Fíli immediately snickered into his fist, quickly moving to dodge a blow from his brother. The younger Dwarf crossed his arms with a pout, turned, and stomped away in a huff to help Glóin settle the ponies. Fíli followed after, trying and failing to hide his mirth. Thorin, with the ease of many years’ practice, ignored his friend and nephews completely and stared at Bilbo so intensely the Hobbit feared his face just might melt straight away.

“You should have signaled for help as soon as the situation turned south,” the Dwarf said irritably.

“Well I hardly had the chance before I was being used as a glorified handkerchief!” Bilbo replied testily. “And how would I have signaled anyone? You lot were too far away and Fíli instructed me to—and I quote—‘hoot twice like a Barn Owl and once like a Screech Owl’ as if I knew the difference, much less how to imitate them!” At Thorin’s unimpressed look, he let out a huff of frustration. “Perhaps _you_ could demonstrate the proper bird calls then, Mr. Oakenshield, since I’m _obviously_ too dimwitted to do more than dribble all over my shirt in a stupor!”

“…I’d say you imitate a Screech Owl convincingly enough for it to not be entirely outside the realm of possibility,” the Dwarf replied dryly after a pause.

For a moment, Bilbo could not think of a single thing to say, which was a miraculous feat on Thorin’s part—rendering a Baggins incapable of speech was no mean feat. So another pause ensued, and neither said anything in favor of giving his companion a healthy dose of the stink eye. Dwalin, glancing back and forth between the two, put a hand to his face in an effort to hide the painfully amused expression threatening to break free. He did not succeed.

Around their little trio, the other Dwarrow tottered back and forth with the various supplies they scavenged from the mess the trolls made of the captured ponies’ saddlebags. Not one of them even attempted to pretend they weren’t listening in with great interest. Nori had the nerve to park his bottom on a stump not too far away, Bofur beside him whittling a block of wood, and grinned quite unrepentantly when he noticed Bilbo giving him an exasperated glance.

Bilbo silently counted to ten, and then counted backwards, and then compiled a list of all the spices in his spice cabinet back home. When that failed to calm his temper, he ran through all the various family members he could think of—on his mother’s side. It was only when Bilbo got to Fortinbras Took that he could respond without the fear of committing spontaneous regicide.

“I’ve had a lot of practice, as of late,” he muttered after quite a while. Thorin’s stink eye had steadily grown a bit of wariness, almost as if he suspected the mortal peril he only just escaped. “Given that this company is determined to drive me to madness, yes, I’d say I’ve gotten more than my fair share.”

“You’re a part of this Company now, Hobbit,” Dwalin pointed out, his lips twitching with a hint of a smirk. At least, Bilbo guessed it was a smirk, since he could hardly see the Dwarf’s expression with all the bristles in the way.

“Further proof that I’m already half-way there.”

Dwalin chortled, nudging his friend in the side with his elbow. “Hear that? Th’ Hobbit thinks yer mad.”

Thorin glowered and brushed him away irritably. “Master Baggins has a lot of opinions and no qualms about sharing them—whether people want them or not.”

“Oh, hello pot,” Bilbo snapped, crossing his arms over his chest. “The kettle would like to know when you’ll be along for tea.”

Someone roared with laughter—Glóin from the sounds of it—but most just settled for looking gleefully entertained. The boys were snacking on his personal stash of crumpets next to Myrtle, which actually bothered him more than the stormy expression on Thorin’s face or the snickers from the other Dwarrow. He’d tucked them away in his saddlebags underneath the vegetables, assuming the pair would avoid them like the plague. As with so many other things, they’d proven him wrong. Kíli waved cheerfully at him from his spot on the ground, his hand clutching a pilfered crumpet, while his brother jealously guarded their prize from Bombur and Bifur’s sticky fingers. The presence of food apparently chased away his previous upset.

Bilbo wondered how best to get away with murdering all the royals in the Company.

“You forget your place, grocer,” Thorin reprimanded quietly, drawing Bilbo away from pleasant daydreams of certain Dwarrow careening off a cliff. “I am the leader of this Company, and as such I deserve your respect.”

“Only when I am shown the same courtesy,” Bilbo replied with displeasure. He clutched his arms closer to his chest in an attempt to hide his shaking hands. My, but that glare was unnerving. “Respect is earned, not given.”

“So this is how you address kings, is it?” Thorin demanded. “With such blatant disregard and a flippant mouth?”

“We have very little use for kings in the Shire, as we have never had one, and you are hardly _my_ king besides.”

At this point Dwalin had to turn away from the conversation, his shoulders hunched and shaking, while Nori leaned so far forward on his stump he was in danger of falling over. Thorin’s expression could curdle milk and peel paint; Bilbo worried for a moment that he had gone too far, but Balin approached before Thorin could respond.

“We’ve found the trolls’ den,” he informed them. “Would you like to see if we can find anything of use, or are you content to stand here arguing with Master Baggins for another fortnight?”

If it was possible for a Dwarf to throw out his back from trying to keep his hysterics under control, Dwalin would need to speak with Óin sooner rather than later. Thorin looked as though he swallowed two buckets of lemons, but grudgingly nodded in deference to Balin’s request.

“Gather a few of the others,” he told Balin. “And take anything of use or value.” Looking down his considerable nose, he stabbed a finger at Bilbo. “You will stay here and look after the ponies, lest you disturb anything else that would eat us.”

Bilbo threw his hands in the air, stuffing down the urge to _really_ show this infuriating man how shrill he could truly be, and stormed his way over to Gandalf—who seemed as if he were enjoying himself entirely too much to be even remotely appropriate.

 _See if I make any more of those black tea cakes with the honey jam he likes so much_ , he thought sourly.

And as if he could read minds (and Bilbo wasn’t entirely convinced he couldn’t—one never knew with wizards), Gandalf smiled broadly at him as he settled in on a tree stump. Bilbo missed the way Dwalin clapped Thorin on the shoulder as he walked away, shaking his head and smirking as his friend glared at him. 

When Bilbo approached Gandalf, the old wizard looked nothing short of spectacularly amused. He puffed around the pipe between his lips and only removed it to blow a stream of smoke directly into the Hobbit’s face. Bilbo would have been more annoyed with this had the smoke not turned into charming little hummingbirds that fluttered about his nose. He suddenly remembered late nights around the fire in the drawing room, watching as the wizard made fantastic shapes dance around him as he sat before Gandalf on the floor. Belladonna’s laugh echoed in his ears, and all at once Bilbo felt much older and twice as young. He stared tiredly up at his friend, shoulders slumping with an unexpected weight.

“What are you doing here, Gandalf?” Bilbo asked wearily.

“Hardly a way to thank someone after they have saved you from becoming a troll’s supper,” Gandalf chided gently and gave another contented pull on his pipe. “Nor, I should think, is it a proper welcome for an old friend and a loyal customer.”

Bilbo sighed heavily, reaching up to roughly scrub at his face. “Hello Gandalf,” he mumbled behind his hands. “Thank you for saving me and my insufferable companions from being viciously murdered by trolls.”

Gandalf beamed happily at him, but made no move to answer his question. Instead, the wizard watched a number of the Dwarrow approach the trolls’ cave and seemed to delight in their disgusted cries over its stench. Only Bifur remained unaffected; he stepped around Dori as the Dwarf struggled to compose himself, and marched forward into the darkness of the cave with his sword drawn and at the ready. Dwalin, Bilbo noted with some satisfaction, lost his earlier smugness and now appeared rather green about the ears. If the burly Dwarf became sick Bilbo would never let him live it down.

“Imagine my surprise,” Gandalf finally said. “When I stopped by the shop, only to be told that not only would it be closed for the foreseeable future, but that its owner had up and gone off on an adventure! With Dwarrow no less.” His eyes twinkled amusedly, grey bushy eyebrows disappearing beneath the brim of his tattered grey hat. “Well, I couldn’t rest until I knew just where I could get more of those delightful cakes, and I set off straight away.”

“You followed us for miles and miles for _cake_?” Bilbo asked incredulously.

“Among other things,” the wizard replied, but disinclined to say more.

Not for the first time, Bilbo wondered just how these people wandered into his life. Surely he never _asked_ for this insanity? All he wanted was to run his shop in peace and quiet; how did he manage to find himself in this situation? Bilbo sighed, knowing the answer but refusing to admit it. With nothing else to do but sit tight until the others finished inspecting the troll cave, he made himself comfortable by the ponies, patting Myrtle absently on the muzzle when she nudged him in search of treats. Further into the clearing Ori slipped in a mud puddle and fell onto his bottom, much to the amusement of the princes.

As Fíli and Kíli laughed together and offered the scribe a hand, Bilbo admitted that while they were the source of all his present troubles, the boys really were decent fellows. 

Sometimes. 


	5. The Orcs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Company finds itself on the wrong side of a warg pack, defends its jam, and receives some unwelcome assistance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .........hello. So, I'm not dead, even though you'd be totally within your rights to believe so after...two...months of radio silence. My bad. Heh. Time has a bad habit of getting away from you when you least expect it, unfortunately.
> 
> Fortunately, however, this chapter is a tad longer than usual so I guess you all can't hate me too much after, right? ...right? Also, I've slowly started to put together a tumblr account for this (and future) fic! If you're interested, take a gander at it; I'll be posting tidbits of future chapters and possibly even short Bag End Jams drabbles. Really, just whatever strikes my fancy. (Be warned, nothing much there yet since I've allowed it to languish as much as this story. :|) 
> 
> Anywho, check out [LizardParadeTales](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/lizardparadetails) for silly updates and junk. If you want.

Keeping the Hobbit hale and whole became a Herculean task once they left the Trollshaws. Everything from the rocks to the air itself seemed bent on wresting the life out of their tiny grocer. Thorin, finding himself grudgingly resigned to Baggins keeping his spot in the Company, felt a bit better once they gave him the glorified elven pig-sticker. Now, at least, he had something to defend himself, even if Baggins couldn’t hit the broad side of a mountain two paces away in broad daylight. The sword was meant to be a last resort in any case, should none of the Dwarrow be able to come to his aid.  

Mahal’s beard, no one attracted danger quite like Baggins—and Thorin’s own brother tended to charge down orcs with only a battle-axe and a prayer. He blamed the Hobbit’s apparent death wish for the fact that not even a fortnight later, on a trail that Thorin and many other Dwarrow used with little trouble on multiple occasions, the entire Company found itself desperately outrunning a pack of wargs with little success. And even though the wagon laden with their supplies crippled their speed and made for an easier target, none (besides Baggins) would willingly abandon it.

“Forget the sodding jam!” the Halfling cried fearfully from his spot at the center of the group. With his fists clenched in tight knots on his pony’s bridle and chest heaving with panicked breaths, he looked every inch the sheltered merchant Thorin knew him to be. “Leave it before we’re all mauled to death!”

Thorin wished he could spare a moment to roll his eyes. A simple mauling would be the least of their worries should their pursuers overtake them—a possibility that grew increasingly inevitable the longer the chase wore on. Orcs held a special fondness for dismembering and disemboweling their enemies; the Company would more resemble Baggins’s precious jam than actual people once this filth satisfied their bloodlust. Personally, Thorin hoped the thirteen ponies behind him managed to trample his bones into dust before the wargs set upon him.

Unlikely, since Dwarven bones were as strong as stone itself, but one could dream. In reality each one of them would hold his ground, fighting until the bitter bloody gruesome painful end.

“We’ve lugged it this far,” Dwalin shouted back over the clash of their ponies’ hooves. “I’m not keen on lettin’ that Orc scum smash it t’pieces.”

“They’ll smash you and everything else to pieces if they catch us!” Baggins fruitlessly tried to reason, his voice a high whine of exasperation and terror.

Dwalin remained stonily silent, predictably ignoring what Thorin considered a sound argument. To anyone else, Dwalin’s concern over what boiled down to trifling indulgences was foolish and ridiculous to the extreme. He knew, as did every other member of the Company (except, once again, for the Halfling) that even should they abandon their cargo and increase their speed to get the fuck out of dodge, the Orcs would dog at their heels until the ponies expired from exhaustion or they fell to sharp teeth and steel. 

Really, then, it made no real difference whether they carried on with the wagon or not. Thorin could admit, at least to himself if no one else, that if they literally threw their supplies to the wolves and managed to survive this disaster he would mourn the loss of the sweet honey cakes and tart raspberry jam tucked away with all the rest.  

 _Baggins must never know,_  Thorin thought to himself.  _Never._

He had to hold onto  _some_  of his dignity, after all, such as it was.  

Kíli stood at the rear of the wagon, shooting off arrow after arrow into the oncoming hoard of wargs. Many hit their mark, felling the giant wolves and their riders, but others glanced off and into the dirt. Nori, on his right, flung an inexhaustible amount of knives at anything that came too close. Between the two, the attackers were kept at bay, but Thorin knew it was only a matter of time until they overtook the Company. He laid a hand on his newly acquired sword—Orcrist, he was told—and steeled himself to go down fighting. Others around him did the same.

“Can’t you do anything?” Dori snapped irritably at Gandalf. He kept Ori’s pony close on his left flank, crowding it protectively into the center.

“Aye, some o’ that magic of yours would clear this mess up right quick,” Bofur agreed affably, his eyes darting back to snarling jaws and sharp teeth.

The wizard said nothing from his spot at the head of the Company. This more than anything else confirmed Thorin’s suspicion that the Halfling’s friend was no wizard at all, but an old wandering and doddered fool with delusions of magic and power. He also eyed the old man’s pipe with a considerable amount of distrust—most likely filled with substances more questionable than simple pipeweed.

A large warg snapped at the flank of Bifur’s pony, eliciting a long stream of filthy cursing, and nearly sent the Dwarf hurtling to the ground. In a flurry of movement, Bifur brought the butt of his sword down hard on the beast’s muzzle with a sickening crack and neatly ducked to avoid the sting of its rider’s blade. The warg fell back with an agonized whine and stumbled hard into one of its packmates; both riders and steeds fell into a jumbled heap as their companions maneuvered around them with varying amounts of success. Several Orcs were crushed beneath their mounts, unable to free themselves in time to avoid the incoming charge.

Kíli quickly took advantage of the break in the pack’s formation to fire off several rounds of arrows, mowing down as many as he could, while Nori did his best to repair the damaged portions of the wagon. He plugged up a small hole in the wood with what seemed to be Bombur’s soup ladle—the cook loudly protesting over its mistreatment—and set about checking that the quick fix would hold the back panel secure. Nodding in satisfaction at his work, Nori sat back against one of the crates for a moment and nimbly fished out a tiny sesame seed cake. 

Kíli shot him a quivering pout as Nori took a large sloppy bite, but the thief just motioned for the archer to keep firing and dove to the bottom of the wagon to avoid an Orc arrow to the face.

“Watch the goods!” Fíli called, pulling his short sword from the neck of a warg that had come just a little too close. Its rider cursed as the beast went down and struck out, but Fíli parried the blow with ease. He gave the Orc a jaunty salute and watched Glóin’s pony stomp its head in with an almost cheerful expression.

“’m onnit,” Nori mumbled through a full mouth, already diving back for another cake.

“Oi! Leave some fer the rest of us, you glutton!”  

“I want some,” Kíli blubbered longingly to himself and promptly shot an arrow into an Orc’s eye socket.

Balin gave Thorin a queer little smile from his position beside him. Despite the peril, the other Dwarf clearly took heart in their companions’ bickering and apparent disregard for anything other than their appetites. Thorin adjusted his grip on Orcrist, trying to channel the same bluster and failing quite miserably. Still, there was a chance they’d come out of this mostly unscathed.

An infinitesimal chance.

Only a few blessed moments of reprieve passed as the mob managed to reorient itself and continued to dog at their heels, snarling and angrier than ever. Thorin quickly chanced a look back at the others to confirm that everyone was still in one piece, but despite his best efforts only the Hobbit’s wide eyes and pale face caught his attention.

Clearly scared of out his wits and shaking violently atop Myrtle, he was obviously trying desperately to hide it. His lips were clamped in a thin, brittle line and he clutched at Myrtle’s bridle so fiercely the poor mare’s jaw would probably dislocate at any moment, but he clearly wanted to remain calm for Ori. The young scribe fared little better than the Hobbit, his breath coming in quick pants and his eyes darting about in a panic. Out of all the Dwarrow, Ori had the least amount of combat experience—mostly due to his brothers’ overprotective natures. His inexperience clearly shone through, making him just as big a target as the pampered merchant they were carting to Erebor.

For Baggins to make a show of courage for Ori’s sake…

Thorin would need to have a talk with the older Ri brothers—the sooner the better. 

The Company couldn’t afford to have such an obvious weak link, not if they wanted to survive hostile encounters with their entrails intact.  

Dwalin fell back to hover by the Hobbit and Ori at Thorin’s signal. If the Orcs broke their formation, these two would require an immediate line of defense as Ori’s slingshot and Baggins’s pig skewer would ultimately fail to fend off any sort of ongoing attack. Dori, of course, sidled closer to his brother’s side once he noticed Dwalin settle into place beside Myrtle, glowering so fiercely it would make a lesser man weep. Baggins turned his face into his shoulder in an attempt to hide his smile.

Well. That was interesting.  

The sounds of splintering wood drew Thorin’s attention away from the quartet. At the rear of the group, the wagon lurched violently from side to side as an Orc began to hack away at one of the wheels. Kíli reached back for an arrow, quick to repel the attacker, only for his hand to close on empty air. He shared a frantic glance with Nori before the back panel of the wagon was torn away, throwing Nori headlong over the edge and leaving him to scramble to find purchase on the smooth wood.

Kíli hurled himself after his friend, latching onto his legs and pulling Nori as far back into the bed of the wagon as he could with the enemy battering them on all sides, and held on while the Dwarrow around them rallied to drive the attackers back. The Orcs jeered triumphantly, clearly tasting victory. One warg broke rank, surging forward, ready to pull Nori down to his death when an arrow embedded itself right into the beast’s eye socket. The Orc rider fell immediately after, a bright plume of blue jutting from its neck.

Nori shot Kíli a look that was thankful if a little bewildered, but the archer seemed just as startled and confused by the timely save. Consequently, he almost lost his hold on Nori’s leg as another warg filled the gap and snapped at Nori’s flailing arms. Kíli hurriedly snatched him back before the giant wolf could relieve Nori of several of his fingers, smashing the thief’s chin against the bed of the wagon in his haste.

Just as the Company began to silently devolve into panic now that its main point of defense vanished and their cargo breached, a loud blast of a horn resounded throughout the plain.

Dozens of riders appeared from seemingly nowhere, surrounding the Company and taking out its pursuers with a rain of arrows and quick flashes of steel. Orcs screeched in pain and fear, attempting to retreat, but the sudden appearance of such fleet-footed soldiers rendered their mounts ungainly and uncoordinated. Each fell within seconds and the commotion ended as soon as it began. The Dwarrow looked around at their saviors in bewilderment and no small amount of prideful resentment. 

Bloody  _Elves_.

Thorin watched the smarmy bastards prance around the Company on their flashy stallions, chittering obnoxiously to one another in their poncey language. He couldn’t make out their features from the gaudy faceplates of their helmets—and how they managed to avoid detection with such glittery armour, Mahal only knew, the bedazzled idiots—but he knew down to his very bones that the leaf-munchers were preening smugly at the Dwarrow’s close encounter with an Orc party. Thorin may not have been able to see their faces, but even he could make out the mocking glitter of Elven eyes.

Thorin found that he could have borne the humiliation of being rescued by flamboyant dandies had Baggins not looked like he was moments away from shitting himself with excitement. He and Ori both were gazing at the Elven troop as if the sun shined out of their arses, leaning forward and craning their necks to get a better view. As if one could miss them with their damn showy breastplates. 

The Elves probably polished them to such a shine in order to use them as a personal looking glass. While Thorin personally didn’t think their egos could stand such constant self-inflation, he could see no other reason for it. Armor was for  _protection_ and _bloodshed_ , not a ruddy beauty pageant. How their people managed to survive for eons was a mystery and an enigma wrapped in an infuriating paradox.

His Company had similar thoughts, it seemed, but mostly took score of themselves and their fellows, content to pay their rescuers little heed. Those who were not eying the flashy armor with distaste were slumped over their horses, eyes shut with exhaustion and relief. Bombur in particular appeared the most visibly relieved at their narrow escape from a gruesome death. Having slid from the back of his pony, he lay spread-eagle on the grass, mopping his face with the edge of a ragged sleeve and heaving long slow breaths.

If pressed later, Thorin would be unable to recall who looked happier for the end of the chase: Bombur or his pony. The poor beast looked fit to drop dead from sheer fatigue (and it was no wonder, having to carry such a _robust_ Dwarf well over three leagues). 

Those at the very back of the Company crowded together to ensure that not only the wagon suffered superficial damage, but their companions as well. Bifur grumbled to Bofur in his rather nonsensical combination of Khuzdul and Inglishmêk. His cousin, cheery and ridiculous in his floppy hat, chattered back easily as he inspected the wagon and presumably Master Baggins (as well he could, from so far away) in equal measure.

Bofur’s fast friendship with their grocer struck Thorin as rather queer, for the two seemed to have so little in common in personalities and interests, but as his nephews appeared equally as fond of the grumpy little hobgoblin (and who could be more wholly dissimilar than two hooligans and arespectable gentlehobbit?) he dismissed the prickle blooming in the back of his mind. 

While there was no sign of Kíli nor his brother from Thorin’s spot at the head of the Company, he could hear their excited babble over the throng of Elven and Dwarfish voices. Alive and well, then.    

Dori clasped his brother by the nape, lightly bumping his forehead to Ori’s temple. When the scribed fidgeted under the attention, Dori lightly cuffed him on the back of the head before giving him a thorough pat down and thrusting all manners of “herbal soothers” into Ori’s protesting hands. Baggins, on Ori’s other side, watched with amusement and a hint of wistfulness

Ori nudged the Hobbit with his elbow, murmuring to him with enthusiastic gestures, which Baggins returned with equal fervor. Pulling out his travel log, Ori began to scribble furiously in the tiny book with Baggins looking on indulgently and making quiet commentary every few moments. Dori and Dwalin’s faces bore such sour and irritable scowls they were in danger of splitting right in two. Their charges continued on obliviously with their task, blind to anything else.

Gandalf sat on his horse looking for all the world as if he had singlehandedly rescued the lot of them from a gruesome death. He had the gall to give Thorin a smugly superior grin, winking at him as he adjusted the raggedy grey scarf about his shoulders. Gandalf nudged his horse forward to intercept the leader of the Elven party and was greeted with effusive fondness. 

“Ah! Mithrandir!”

At this point Thorin chose to ignore the daft old man while he gabbed away and wasted precious daylight. Instead, he dismounted and made his way to the back, checking on each member of his Company and ensuring they were all unharmed. When Thorin reached the wagon, Glóin and Óin were inspecting the gouges in the wheels and arguing over the best method in repairing them. Bofur watched with amused indulgence, knowing that out of all the Dwarrow in the immediate vicinity he—and Bifur, of course—stood as the chief expert in woodworking and that each suggestion the two made were utterly foolish. His moustache quivered violently with the effort of suppressing his laughter as Glóin attempted to wrench the hunk of wood back into place, only to swear violently as he received several large splinters in his palm.

Bofur noticed their leader looking on and winked cheerfully at him, which Thorin accepted with better grace and goodwill.

Thorin rounded the body of the wagon with the intention of taking stock of the cargo, but the sight that greeted him was so ridiculous it pushed the thought straight from his mind. There had better be one honey cake left, Thorin grumbled to himself, or there would be hell to pay. 

Nori, Fíli, and Kíli had clearly taken advantage of everyone’s distraction to dig into the stores of jam and sweets. Crates aplenty were pried open, some lying completely on their sides, and no less than three jars of jam littered the wagon bed. Currently the three vultures shared a small pot of blueberry jam together as they happily munched away on seed cake, completely oblivious to Thorin’s murderous stare. A few Elves watched on with expressions of mingled distaste, amusement, and envy.

Thorin had a fleeting moment of commiseration, but quashed it so immediately that it may as well have never happened. 

Fíli looked up from his ill-begotten spoils and, upon noticing his uncle, was quick to thrust his piece of cake right into his brother’s hands. For a moment Kíli was unaccountably delighted, his face a beacon of schmoopy bliss, until he too noticed Thorin standing before the bed of the wagon—the picture of kingly displeasure. His face fell so swiftly that Thorin almost felt sorry for him. Looking down at the two large pieces of seed cake in his grubby hands, Kíli meekly held one out in attempt to placate his uncle before he murdered them all. 

“Cake…?” he asked with a guilty smile.

Mindful of the extra eyes, Thorin took a moment to compose himself before he throttled his sister-son into oblivion. “Would one of you care to explain how  _two weeks_  of provisions managed to disappear in less than  _five minutes_?” 

“We were overcome with anxiety,” Nori drawled, scooping out a heaping portion of jam to pat on top of his cake. “So we decided to eat our feelings until they went away.” 

Fíli, the unrepentant opportunist, nodded sagely in agreement.

“Glóin and Bombur helped too,” Nori added.

Closing his eyes, Thorin fought the urge to drop his face into his hands. At times, he could really see why his grandfather descended into madness and knew instinctually that it was not due to the Dragon Sickness.

Thorin truly despaired of every member of his kingdom, especially when it appeared that not one of them possessed even a modicum of good sense.

“Clean this mess up,” he ordered wearily. “And see to the repair of the wagon.  _Not one more bite_ , do you understand me?”

He turned on his heel and stalked away, not even waiting to see if they heeded his instructions, desperately seeking a source of reason to ground him before he lost it entirely. The huddle of Elves tittered behind his back and whispered amongst themselves. For a second or two, Thorin believed it would be entirely worth the diplomatic nightmare if he socked each one of them in their sniveling faces. 

“…Thorin?”

“ _What_?” he barked, whirling on the source of interruption. 

Baggins blinked rapidly and held up his hands in surrender, backing up a step or two. Over the Hobbit’s head, Dwalin shook his head and raised his eyebrows in a look that Thorin refused to decipher. Instead, he fixed his attention wholly on Baggins’s wide ( _mossy green, rather striking_ ) eyes, decidedly ignoring his closest friend. 

And when Baggins backed up just a bit more, Thorin realized that perhaps he was ignoring Dwalin a little  _too_  forcefully.

“Um,” the Hobbit began warily. “Is everything alright?” 

_No._

“Yes, Master Baggins,” Thorin replied, trying to appear less manic and more dignified. “Is there something you need?”

Baggins fidgeted with a small bundle in his hands, hesitating. With a quick breath and a glance at Thorin, he held it out with hands that shook only slightly.

“Here. I thought you could use this—food always helps me settle when I feel out of sorts.”

For whatever reason, Thorin found himself equally as hesitant. He had the feeling that whatever Baggins was offering him would make it that much harder to be unpleasant (and it was just so easy to be unpleasant). Carefully, Thorin took the bundle, weighing it in his hands as if it would suddenly rear and strike him on the nose.

“It’s the last honey cake,” Baggins said eventually in an attempt to breach the silence that fell thick between them. “I had to pry it from Fíli’s greedy fingers, but I think it fared well enough. Only a little worse for wear. Um. I noticed that you seemed to like them, so I thought…” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “Yes, well.” 

With that, the tiny creature scurried away back to his pony, leaving Thorin to stare at his retreating back in complete bafflement.

Dwalin smothered a cough in the crook of his elbow, but as Thorin was currently ignoring him he paid no attention. Balin merely watched the scene unfold quietly, a pleased gleam in his eye that Thorin also vowed to overlook. 

Tucking the cake into his pocket with care, Thorin made his way back to Minty without acknowledging anyone. All the while, the bundle felt like it would burn a hole straight through his pocket.  

Thorin found that he could not ignore it.   

 


End file.
